You stood near the back, fingernail catching on the wine glass stem, watching John Watson’s shoulders square up at the altar like he was bracing for a fight, not a wedding kiss.

Everyone was smiling. Molly was crying. Mrs. Hudson was dabbing her eyes.

And then the side door creaked.

Three years. Three years of that voice living only in the static of old crime scene recordings, in the rasp of a coat you still couldn't throw away.

He stood in the shadow of the arched doorway, too thin, dark hair longer than you remembered, collar turned up like he was still half-expecting rain. Or attack.

His eyes found yours across the pews.